Code Geass: Despin of the Reclamation
by Unloved Grudge
Summary: Being the son of a European businessman that defected to the Holy Britannian Empire, Despin Monaco joined the Britannian Armed Forces with the intention of solidifying his family's position in Britannian society. However, during his deployment to the African battlefront, Despin finds himself becoming involved in a plot that could either revive or bury his family's legacy.
1. Chapter 1

The Liberian throne room had a strong shade of gold to it – a sight that contrasted sharply with the outer districts of the capital city of Monrovia. Mountains and highlands that consisted of nothing but slums and shacks, with a stench that would have surrounded the palace had it not been for the several dozen air filterers the King had installed over the years.

'I hope we don't look as out of place as I think we do,' Job said quietly, preening his moustache. He carefully scanned the several dozen Liberian nobles that stood at both sides of the room. Suits, hats, aftershave, beer bellies; things you mostly certainly wouldn't have seen anywhere outside the palace in a country like this.

'We don't. Ease up a bit. We're representing the whole Fourth Army here. Mess up and you'll be sent back home in chains.' Despin frowned. 'And not in golden chains, mind you.'

'Presenting His Highness, King Arob II of the great Kingdom of Liberia!' one of the royal guards shouted, standing proudly in his dark blue uniform and pale orange trousers.

All of the guards stood to attention, looking up as King Arob strolled quaintly into the throne room, with the typical look of propriety on his face that most people would expect from a member of any royal family. An anthem played away solemnly in the background; beautifully rendered music and vocals that Job was all too keen to admire. He started humming to it, much to Despin's disapproval.

'Give it a rest, Lieutenant,' he hissed quietly, elbowing his subordinate.

'But, it's nice,' Job insisted. 'And we've been standing around in this blistering heat all day. We need some time to relax and let the stress dwindle a-'

'We can do that some other time,' Despin said sharply, elbowing him harder.

Job was new to the Fourth Army. He spent the majority of his military career standing guard by the doors of some of Britannia's best commanders. The African climate and less than adequate living conditions of the Liberian locals was not something that Job was willing to put up with – even with the promotion and the higher salary.

That's notwithstanding the fact that Captain Despin Monaco was nothing short of an arsehole. He sported an Albion accent. He was a good few inches taller than Job, had a mop of piss-colour hair that caught the eyes of every woman in the vicinity, and to top it all off: he didn't feed Job the leftovers of his meals like his previous employers did.

It was safe to say that Job didn't like him.

The King turned, waiting while one of his manservants removed his velvet red cape from his shoulders, revealing a fine blue suit with a golden bolo tie. He cleared his throat, waiting for another manservant to place his platinum crown upon his bald head. He then sat on his throne, resting his chin in his left hand.

The same guard from before shouted again, saying, 'Presenting Daniel Wolseley, diplomat and representative of the Fourth Britannian Army!'

Mister Wolseley, the Britannian diplomat that Job and Despin were escorting, left the crowd and walked along the silk red carpet. He stopped a few metres away from the steps leading to the throne, before bending a knee and bowing theatrically. 'Your Highness,' he greeted. His voice was gentle and agreeable. His fair head of hair was neatly cut and combed. His elaborate wardrobe of gold and green commanded the attention of any onlooker. He was a true diplomat. He straightened himself. 'I come here on behalf of Duke Defalk, commander of the Britannian-African theatre of operations. It has come to our General's attention that you wish to renegotiate the current trade agreement we have between both of our armies.'

'Yes, I do,' the King said aloud. His accent was heavy, and the pace at which he spoke seemed to vary with every few words he uttered. It was something that Job noticed with most of the Africans he came in contact with thus far. 'The Royal Liberian Army is dissatisfied with some of the arrangements we have made with the Britannian military. We would like to make some modifications to our business relationship, Mister Wolseley.'

'This should be good,' Job said. Despin elbowed him again.

'Then please, Your Highness, let us hear your proposal,' Wolseley said politely.

The King leaned forward, joining his hands under his chin. Job wondered how the man could even move his fingers with so many golden and silver rings on them.

'The Fourth Britannian Army has established many military bases across our territory over the last year.' He raised his index and long finger up at the set of curtains to his left. They parted, revealing a large flat screen. A map of the continent flickered onto the screen. The territory of Liberia, encompassing the southern half of West Africa, was marked in dark orange. Some smaller Britannian annexation points could be seen near the south-western portion of the continent, all marked in blue. The rest of the African continent was dominated by a wave of yellow: the Middle Eastern Federation. 'As of now, there are currently thirty thousand Britannian soldiers spread across our territory, taking aggressive action against the Middle Eastern Federation.

'However, despite bearing the numeric and technological advantages over-'

Job sniggered, bringing his gloved hand up to his mouth when a few Liberian nobles looked back at him.

'What the hell are you doing?' Despin asked, fighting to keep his voice down.

'I'm sorry,' Job said, raising his hands. He sniggered again. More curious looks from the nobles. 'It's just his voice. His accent. The way he pronounced…' His words were lost in his convulsion.

Despin shook his head and forced his mind to focus on the negotiations.

'…it is clear that Britannia is not making as much progress as we expected it to. As a result of this, we are uncertain as to whether or not we can support the Britannians' presence in our fair country.' The King's eyes narrowed, crow-like. 'We will require additional compensation in order to rectify this miscalculation. Say, perhaps double the usual shipments of weapons and food?'

'I'm afraid that would be quite impossible, Your Highness,' Wolseley replied, still bearing the same calm, reasonable tone he always spoke in. Gasps and whispers ran across the room.

'And why is that?' the King asked, almost phrasing it as a demand.

'Britannia has underestimated the Middle Eastern forces; that much is certain. However, given the current circumstances, we simply cannot afford to divert additional supplies and rations to your own army, Your Highness.' He stood taller and joined his hands behind his back. 'Armaments, ships, and knightmares are not cheap to produce, Your Highness, and the monthly shipments you receive from our factories are generous enough as they are.'

'That is true,' the King interrupted. 'But, our nation is poor and our economy is weak. We-'

'Perhaps that would not be the case if so much of your finances were not being siphoned away for your wives' shopping trips.'

The King's eyes bulged. More whispers across the room. Such a crippling insult, which was delivered in such a calm and docile voice. The King stood. 'If the Britannians are not willing to renegotiate, then you may take your men, your knightmares, and your ships and just simply leave. I will give you and your precious duke three days to consider this.'

'With respect, Your Highness,' Wolseley continued, 'without Britannia's presence in your country, the sovereignty of Liberia cannot be guaranteed.' His persistence made it clear that he wasn't willing to walk away defeated. 'With the Middle Eastern Federation encroaching much of the territory in Central Africa, it will be only a matter of time before they move into your own lands.' He pointed at the screen. 'If Britannia is forced to discontinue its trade agreement with your army, the Federation will take advantage and stage an invasion of your homeland.'

The King looked away, biting his lower lip. 'Then we will simply ally with the Federation and oppose Britannia.'

'And surrender your right to rule in the process?' Wolseley raised his index finger and waved it dismissively. 'The Federation is a collaboration of democratic nations. They will not recognise your monarchy. They will swallow up your nation and overthrow you given the chance, Your Highness.'

The King stiffened. He fell back into his chair. Sweat beaded on his forehead. 'But Britannia promised that they would defeat the Federation.' He raised his hands. 'Britannia is powerful, is it not? Why has it not defeated the Federation yet?'

'We have few allies in Africa, Your Highness. This region is largely unknown to us. It will take time,' Wolseley said. 'However, Duke Defalk will not agree to extra shipments. I can guarantee you this. It will do nothing but insult him,' he lowered his head, casting a shadow over his eyes, 'and possibly the Emperor himself, should he hear of this.'

The King waved his hand dismissively, breaking eye contact again. 'I need time to think on this. I must consult my advisors.'

'Or your wives,' Job said with another snigger.

'Another word out of your mouth and I'll have you strung up,' Despin warned. He and the rest of his security detail moved to meet Wolseley as the King stood and walked out with his guards.

* * *

The heat was strong. Job removed his yellow overcoat and was about to remove his armoured vest until Despin warned him not to. Job occupied himself by chatting with his men.

'You think you're bad?' Sergeant Carlos Berkes said. He removed his helmet – revealing his light brown skin and bowl brown hair – before pointing to his grey tactical armour. 'At least you can take your clothes off. We need to keep this crap on at all times.'

'Anybody got any water?' one of the privates behind asked. He shared a canister with one of his squad members.

'Hopefully you won't need to get into one of those things then,' Job said, pointing at the two convoy trucks, each holding two hunched Sutherlands. The Sutherland was a standard mass-production knightmare model, complete with a standard cockpit and an advanced landspinner system. Unlike the typical Sutherland models that were fighting in Asia and Europe, these models had sandy brown plate armour, given the environment that these machines were currently in.

'Yes. Lack of air conditioning in the knightmares would definitely be a problem, sir,' Carlos said, wiping his forehead.

Wolseley walked towards the group, having finished his phone conversation with officials from High Command. The men stood to attention and saluted. Wolseley nodded.

'Thank you for being here, gentlemen,' he said with a bow.

'Think nothing of it, Mister Wolseley,' Despin said. 'It's our jobs to-'

A spurt of blood blinded Despin. Wiping his eyes, he looked up, watching with poorly concealed horror as Wolseley shuddered and fell to the floor. Blood poured from the bullet wound in his jaw.

'Into cover!' Job shouted. He grabbed Despin and led him to cover behind one of their armoured jeeps, narrowly avoiding the oncoming spray of gunfire that sent sand flying everywhere. He looked out of cover, identifying the four attacking Liberian soldiers, before raising his handgun and firing a few shots, scattering them. He grabbed Despin and shook him. 'Sir! Are you alright? Captain Despin Monaco, are you alright? Can you hear me?'

Despin's eyes seemed far away. Job's voice eventually fed its way through his ears, and before long Despin finally realised the treachery that was at hand. He snarled and grabbed Job by the neck. 'Get me into a knightmare. Now.'

'Covering fire!' Carlos instructed. The men split up and took position next to each vehicle, firing upon their assailants with their assault rifles. Reinforcements from the steel and gold palace ahead arrived. 'Finlay, get Aero two-one on the line! We need evac!'

The man in question nodded and hit his earpiece, conversing with an operator over the line.

Despin and Job ducked and sprinted towards one of the cargo trucks. Two Britannian riflemen covered their approach, before stopping to reload.

'Are the cargo doors open?' Despin shouted.

'They are!' one of the men replied. He leaned out of cover and started shooting again.

Job ducked next to the doors and cupped his hands, ready to offer support. Despin grunted ignorantly. 'I can climb up myself, Job.'

'Of course, sir,' he said. He followed Despin in and clicked his handgun's flashlight on. The halo of light cut through the darkness, revealing the rear armour of one of the Sutherlands.

'I take it you can pilot one?' Despin asked as he fingered the controls on the cockpit's hull.

'Of course, sir! I've guarded some of Britannia's finest commanders in a Sutherland!'

'In the middle of war?' Despin asked, keeping his eyes on the control panel. The cockpit hissed, before the seat compartment slid back, granting Despin access to the knightmare.

'Well, no,' Job admitted with a groan. 'But I have basic training done!'

'Job, did you ever actually kill a man before?'

Job looked down, suddenly feeling ridiculous without his overcoat. He ignored that and looked up. His bloated chest rose for the first time that day. 'No, sir, but I intend to kill my first man today!'


	2. Chapter 2

'Aero two-one and two-two are on their way, Sergeant! ETA five minutes!'

'Good to know!' Carlos replied. He raised his rifle and fired a burst, hitting a Liberian soldier that popped out of cover a second too soon.

The Liberians had no combat armour of any description. The royal guardsmen had their fancy, expensive uniforms, while the reserves made use of baggy, unflattering green uniforms that were drenched in sweat and mud. They stood no chance against superior Britannian firearms.

But there were dozens of them. Performing a quick headcount of his own troops as he reloaded, Carlos counted fifteen men, excluding Job and Captain Monaco. Not enough to survive in the middle of hostile territory.

A flurry of bullets hit the armoured jeep, forcing him to the ground.

'This is going to be a really long five minutes!' Carlos shouted, before climbing to his feet and firing another few shots in the enemy's general direction.

The cargo containers behind them parted, releasing a fresh burst of steam. Two Sutherlands stood, their sensors pinging. The second Sutherland bore a long red cape that reached down to its heels. It brandished a gold-tipped sword. It was obvious that it was being piloted by Despin, given his officer rank. Job piloted the considerably more basic-looking one in front.

Despin's Sutherland jumped from the truck, landing and sending a mini-sandstorm towards the men. His landspinners dropped and howled to a start, sending him straight for the Liberian troops, bullets flying from his machine pistol.

Five Liberians went down; while the others ran for cover behind the garden pottery and the knee-high ceramic walls that surrounded the palace. Despin circled around, knocking over a stone statue of a royal Liberian figure in the process.

'Job! Make yourself useful and help me!'

'Right away, sir!' Job said. He fumbled with his access key before finally getting it into the slot. He inputted his access code. Wrong code. He inputted it again. The knightmare's control panel lit up slowly like an oil lantern.

His Sutherland's landspinners dropped and hit the ground. He stumbled slightly as the landspinners sent him for the enemy's position. He swerved and crashed into one of the armoured jeeps, sending a number of his men running in panic.

'Sorry! Sorry! Been a while since I piloted one of these!' Harmless barrages of gunfire pelted off the Sutherland's armour. Job regained his footing and sped back in the direction of the enemy garrison. They screamed and parted right before he crashed through the several rows of ceramic walls that stood before him.

'Lieutenant, you have a gun! Use it!' Despin ordered as he fired a few shots of his own.

'Yes, I suppose I do,' Job said, appallingly ignorant of the bullets hitting his armour. He raised his rifle and peppered the rooftop of the palace, killing a number of Liberian troopers. He laughed madly, slamming the dashboard. 'I got one! No, more like three of them! Did you see that, sir? Captain?'

'Bit busy right now!' Despin barked, turning and firing shots at the approaching knightmares from the south. Twelve Glasgows. They were older, slower, smaller and thinner than the Britannian Sutherlands, but a well-rounded squadron of them could still do some serious damage.

'Glasgows? Guess the Supply Corps was really generous to these Liberians, huh?'

'Shut up and shoot!'

Job's landspinners took off again. He hazarded a few shots at one of the Glasgows, ripping off some of its chestplate armour and frightening it away from the line of fire. The rest closed in and circled around, providing suppressive fire.

Despin took off and brought up his sword, decapitating one of the Glasgows and slicing into its chest, impaling the pilot. He sidestepped and swung at another one, which parried the blow with its wrist-mounted tonfas. Despin raised his other hand and emptied his clip into the Glasgow's chest, pushing it away before it started to catch fire. He pulled back behind one of the nearby gold columns, sheathing his blade and reloading. Looking down, he could see that he sustained some fire when he was sparring with the Glasgows. Regardless, his engine readings were still positive and the Sutherland's limbs were still functioning. He had no reason to be concerned, aside from the fact that he was completely outnumbered.

Job circled around and shot at two of the ten remaining Glasgows, leading them away from Despin and the rest of the platoon. Utilising his Sutherland's superior mobility, he gained speed and crashed through the palace gates, which took him straight into the city. Skidding to a halt on the road, he turned and fired an interminable amount of bullets, hitting the pursuing Glasgows. The first toppled over and caught fire, while the second slid to the left, looking to seek cover behind a nearby guard station. The soldiers within panicked and evacuated the tall concrete tower, right before the Glasgow peered out and shot at Job.

'This thing's tougher than it looks!' Job said, activating the landspinners and rolling out his tonfas. He sped towards the Glasgow, ignorant of the gunfire, before striking its head and sending it back. He hit it again, costing it its grip on its assault rifle, before throwing one final blow, sending the machine crashing into a nearby shanty. Civilians covered in rags ran from the wreckage, having somehow avoided what could have been a very quick death.

The pilot clambered out of the creased, wrecked cockpit, before running further into the shanty town. Job let him go. He activated his sensors, scanning for any other hostile knightmares. Interestingly enough, he picked up some light radio chatter. A Britannian channel.

'This is Aero two-one to any Britannian forces stationed at the Liberian palace. I repeat: this is Aero two-one. Does anyone copy?'

'This is Lieutenant Job Kramer. My unit was an escort for Britannian diplomat Daniel Wolseley. We are under attack by the Liberian palace guards. I repeat: the Liberians are attacking us.'

The voice from before interrupted him. 'Who's your CO, Lieutenant? Over.'

Job snorted, swallowing a wad of mucus. 'Oh, uh, Captain Despin Monaco, sir. Over.'

'How many of you are left? Over.'

'They're all still alive, as far as I'm aware,' Job said. He wheezed, wiping away some sweat. 'Don't know it that'll be the case for long. Over.'

'We'll make sure that it stays that way. Rendezvous with us at the palace. Over.'

A whooshing sound fell from the sky. Job looked up, seeing two Britannian Air Force transport ships hovering overhead, accompanied by four smaller gunships. The cargo doors on the transport ships opened.

* * *

Having taken advantage of Job's diversionary attack, Despin sped out of cover, spraying the horde of Glasgows with bullets. He smashed through statues, pottery and walls. A symphony of bullets came from behind, redecorating the entire area with holes and smashed ceramic.

'Sergeant Berkes! Any chance you could-'

'Way ahead of you, sir!' Carlos replied, wooing over the radio.

Two Sutherlands pulled up behind the Glasgows. They raised their assault rifles and shot at them, taking down two and forcing the rest to split and circle around.

Despin roared and fired up his landspinners. He sped towards one of the Glasgows and cut through the cockpit, murdering the pilot. Another came by, opening fire. Despin ducked and twisted, using the hilt of his sword to deliver an uppercut, smashing the Glasgow's helmet and sensors like glass. He then levelled his sword and dug it into the Glasgow's chestplate.

'Could use some help here, sir!' Carlos shouted.

He and Private Kirk Finlay were surrounded, seeking asylum behind two golden columns – both depreciating in durability very quickly. Carlos peered out of cover to deliver a few shots here and there, but the masses of approaching gunfire kept him from getting a proper aim.

'This is the end, Sergeant!' Kirk roared, excitement pumping through his veins despite his impending doom. 'It's been an honour, sir!'

'That it has, Finlay! Hail Britannia!'

They lurched out of cover and hit their landspinners, running and gunning their assailants. Their armour creaked and sparked, unable to withstand the overwhelming hostile fire. Finlay's legs went, bringing his knightmare to the ground. Carlos lost his gun arm, and lost the other before he could reach for his fallen rifle. Then his legs went, leaving only a limbless cocoon of battered brown metal. Soon the Glasgows would close in, crush their cockpits, and then double back and overwhelm Despin. Carlos closed his eyes, knowing that it was over.

Then there was a whoosh of noise from the sky. The sound of whining quantum engines. The Glasgows halted fire, before activating their sensors and gazing up at the sky behind.

Despin stopped, his landspinners skidding and sending dirt everywhere. Looking up, he honed his cameras in on the winged transport ships hovering several hundred feet above the palace grounds.

Their cargo doors slid open, and from within the bowels of the two ships poured two squadrons of flight-capable Sutherlands. The red flotation devices attached to their backs steadied their descent, wisps of smoke rising from their wings. They raised their rifles and peppered the Glasgows with startingly accurate gunfire. The Glasgows tried to disperse, but their metallic bodies came apart piece by piece before they could even get their landspinners running. By the time the reinforcements landed, the space ahead of Carlos was nothing more than a knightmare graveyard.

Soldiers poured out of the palace doors and windows, raising their weapons. They glared at the Sutherlands, before throwing bewildered looks at one another. They then dropped their weapons and raised their hands, walking out into the open sunlight to signal their surrender.

Job pulled up, grabbing the attention of the Britannian reinforcements.

'Did we win?' he asked on an open channel.

An irritated groan blew past Despin's clenched teeth. 'Yes, Job, we won.'


	3. Chapter 3

In the span of an hour, several Britannian armoured trucks and carriers pulled up, delivering several companies of men into the palace grounds. Gunships patrolled the skies. Knightmares and infantry guarded the gates, turning away curious civilians that came by to find out what was going on. Palace guards were taken prisoner, before being escorted away for interrogation by special forces.

Carlos sustained a minor head injury and some mild concussion during the fighting. A female medic tended to his wound. He observed the platoon of Britannian soldiers to his left, who stood to attention for their platoon leader.

'Take it easy, dammit!' Carlos snapped, slapping the medic's hand away. He took a deep breath and allowed her to continue dabbing the cut on his forehead.

Private Kirk Finlay approached him and saluted. Aside from a few tears in his undershirt, Kirk appeared to be unharmed.

Carlos waved the medic away and spat, dropping his boot on the spot of saliva that landed on the dirt ground. 'Private Finlay, it pleases me to see that you don't look like shit. Wish I could say the same for myself.'

'You'll be fine, sir. You're the strongest man I know,' Kirk said, stiff as a board as he held his salute.

'Flattery at a time like this?' Carlos said with an honest smile. He looked away. 'At ease, Private. I'm an Honorary Britannian. You don't need to hold me with such high regard.' He pressed his finger against the cut, testing the pain. 'If anything, I should be the one flattering you. You stood by me and fought in completely perilous circumstances.'

Kirk lowered his head humbly. 'I wouldn't be a soldier if I couldn't stand by my comrades, sir.'

'Yes, yes, I know,' Carlos said impatiently. He's heard this sort of modesty from every second soldier he's ever met. He raised his hand, waiting for Kirk to take it. 'I offer you my thanks, Private Finlay.'

Kirk hesitated for a moment, mouth agape as if he was planning to say something. He reached down and shook his squad leader's hand, smiling. 'As a fellow Britannian, it is my duty to stand by my comrades-'

'Enough of that,' Carlos said with grunt, tearing his hand away. Kirk blushed and looked down. 'Go get yourself some food. You've earned it.'

'Yes, sir,' Kirk said with a salute. He turned and left.

Carlos reached for his canister and gulped the water down. He stood and strolled through the palace grounds, observing the soldiers on guard. He hazarded a glance at the one of the Britannian transport ships he saw before. It was a long, arched structure of white metal that was supported by two turboprop wings at its sides and four jet engines at the rear. He had a look at the cockpit, taking note of the two pilots within. One of them looked back and raised his thumb. Carlos did the same.

He continued walking until he caught a glimpse of Job and Despin, who were standing next to an armoured carrier. They appeared to be arguing. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that Despin was doing most of the arguing.

'…this is the last time I'll ask: where is your uniform?'

'I told you, sir: it was lost during the fighting!' Job said, raising his hands in mock defence. He was wearing was a tight grey undershirt that did nothing to flatter his rotund physique, alongside stained yellow trousers and a pair of muddy black boots.

'It wasn't lost! You took it off because you couldn't stop whining about the heat!' Despin threw his hands out angrily. 'And now you can't find it. That's it, isn't it?'

Job looked down; sweat dripping from his wet hair. 'Even if I could, it'd probably be covered in bullet holes anyway.'

Despin pinched the bridge of his nose. 'You are to stay out of sight when Lord Colonel Simpson arrives. Do you understand? He'll burst into flames if he sees you like that.' He dropped his hand and leaned closer. 'And for God's sake, find a new uniform. Someone around here must have a spare one on hand!'

Job scampered out of sight. Despin rested his back against the carrier, dabbing his forehead with a napkin he fetched from his pocket.

'Sir,' Carlos greeted with a salute. Despin nodded, refraining from saying anything. 'Bit harsh on the poor man, aren't you?'

'He's a buffoon,' Despin said sternly.

'He's only been with us a month.'

'That's exactly what makes it so embarrassing! He can't go more than five minutes without whining or doing something completely inappropriate! That old fool spent half of his life guarding doors and gates.' He walked closer to Carlos, speaking in a hushed tone as if he was spreading gossip. 'I mean, did you know that he never killed a man up until today? That man must be at least a decade older than me, for goodness' sake, and he's never spilled blood until now!' He folded his arms. 'He must have bought his way up. By right, he should still be a recruit, not a damn lieutenant.'

'I don't think he's of noble birth, sir,' Carlos said with an indifferent smile. 'Believe me, I'd know if he was.'

'I don't mind the fact that you're an Honorary civilian, Carlos.' Despin pointed a finger. 'I only mind fools like that man!'

Carlos stretched and leaned back against the carrier, watching the sky. 'Look, as a Six, I spent a good bit of my life living in poverty. Colombia isn't a particularly rich province.' He ran his hand through his hair. 'So I know what it's like to be looked down upon.' He pointed in the direction that Job went in. 'But that man should not be looked down upon. He fought with you while me and the guys were stuck on the ground with our fingers up our asses.' He rammed his hand against the carrier, but not in an aggressive fashion. 'Something like that is worth respect and honour. I know he's a bit unusual, but I've fought with many unusual types over the years, and I can safely say that he's one of the better ones out there.'

A pang of guilt sullied Despin's temper. He idly kicked some dirt away and sighed. 'I respect the man's bravery, but there are plenty of brave men out there.' He straightened himself and started walking. 'Bravery doesn't make a good soldier. Intelligence does.'

Carlos rolled his eyes and continued watching the sky.

Thirty minutes passed. Despin and Carlos killed some time by conversing with their platoon. Miraculously, all the men survived the battle, with only a few bandaged grazes and flesh wounds standing out here and there. They sang a satirical version of the Britannian anthem in celebration, with the exception of Despin, who felt that he wasn't in a position to make any witticisms about the royalty. Halfway through the anthem, he happened to look at the palace gates to the south, spotting an armoured convoy in the distance. The flag of the 22nd Mechanised Regiment fluttered on the armoured jeep that the convoy was escorting.

'Shush!' Despin hissed. The men stopped, looking at their captain in confusion.

'What's wrong, sir?' Carlos asked. Despin pointed at the convoy. Realisation dawning on his face, Carlos sighed, sharing none of Despin's concern. 'Ah, the great Lord Colonel Simpson.' He stuck his tongue out. 'Alright, lads: look busy.'

The platoon readjusted themselves, trying to look as weary and war-torn as possible.

'No doubt he'll be wanting to speak with us,' Despin said. He cast a worrying look at the damaged Sutherlands next to the palace.

'We'll be fine,' Carlos said, watching the armoured carriers drive past the gates. 'There's no way we could have anticipated the Liberians' attack. I'm sure the Lord Colonel will realise that.'

Despin swallowed. 'Daniel Wolseley was the nephew of the Count of New Edinburgh, one of the richest nobles in Britannia.'

Carlos frowned and scratched his head. 'He was? That man's a billionaire.'

'And he's a cousin of one of the Emperor's wives.' Despin shook his head, letting more sweat drip from his face. 'He won't be happy knowing that his beloved nephew was killed by a bunch of dark skins.' He swallowed again. 'And suffice to say that it won't look good for us.'

The armoured jeep from before finally made its way through the gates. It stopped. Two soldiers disembarked and opened the front passenger door. A tall, slender man, dressed in a dark yellow uniform with all manner of medals and stars fastened to it, stepped out. He removed his cap and dusted it idly, revealing a crop of combed brown hair. His narrow green eyes took in the expanse of the palace in a single glance, before they rested on Despin himself. Colonel Simpson placed his cap on his head and strolled up to nearby officer.

The officer, a major, saluted and greeted the Colonel.

'Report,' Simpson said.

'We've scoured the palace from top to bottom, sir, but we found no trace of the King. Testimonies we've extracted from some of the palace guards indicate that the King fled in the middle of the fighting. He's believed to have escaped to the Royal Monrovia Army Base forty miles north of here.'

The Colonel nodded. He glanced at Despin again. 'And Wolseley?'

'Dead, sir. Our head corpsman confirmed it the moment we arrived. He sustained a bullet wound to his left jaw,' the officer pointed at his own mouth for reference, 'and presumably died from shock as a result of his injury. However, we can't confirm anything until we get the body back to-'

The Colonel raised his hand, shooting another deathly look at Despin. 'I assume that it was the Liberians who killed him?'

The officer nodded. 'Yes, sir. We spoke with Wolseley's escort unit and with palace guards who witnessed the incident. Wolseley was shot dead by the Liberians, and it was King Arob who gave the order.'

Colonel Simpson raised an eyebrow, breaking eye contact with Despin. 'Any theories as to why King Arob would plunge himself and his people into war with us?'

The officer's face could not be seen through his helmet, but his voice harboured a faint touch of amusement. 'According to witnesses, Wolseley made a passing comment about King Arob's shopping trips with his wives during the negotiations.' He shook his head. 'The King did not approve.'

'I see.' Colonel Simpson frowned, glaring at Despin again. 'I take it that is Captain Monaco over there?'

The officer nodded and pointed back at the platoon. Despin could feel his insides shrivel up like a wet towel.

Carlos placed his hand on Despin's shoulder. 'Best of luck then,' he said, suppressing a smile. His words made Despin shiver.

Colonel Simpson approached Despin, hands placed firmly behind his back. 'Captain Monaco,' he greeted.

'Sir!' Despin and Carlos saluted.

'You all made it out alive, I see,' Simpson said, a slight rise of pitch in his voice. 'Daniel Wolseley didn't.'

'We tried our best, sir. We didn't see it coming.' More sweat. 'We should have.'

Simpson bit his lower lip. His shoulders rose and fell slightly, which Despin took as a shrug. 'Perhaps so. Perhaps not. The man shouldn't have been kept out in the open.' He rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'But then again, given their vulnerability, no one could have expected the Liberians to betray us like this.' He frowned. 'There is very little we know about this land and its people.' He breathed out and shrugged again, albeit very slightly. 'Though I doubt that has anything to do with it at all. I'm certain that this is the result of a madman of a king. Nothing more.'

Despin didn't feel as brittle now. The redness bled from his cheeks and his sides stopped quaking violently. He waited for Simpson to continue.

'I do not blame you for Wolseley's death. You and your men managed to survive, despite being heavily outnumbered and outgunned, and I do not doubt that you tried your best to keep Wolseley protected, even if your efforts were ultimately in vain.' The frightening look in his eyes returned. 'But, I do have this to give you,' he said with a condescending grunt. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. 'It's from your father. He's asking you to come home. Again.'

Despin took the letter and scanned through the text quickly. Through the corner of his eye, he could see Carlos' shadow rising up to catch a peek. He crumpled up the paper and bit his tongue furiously. He could now see why Colonel Simpson was so displeased.

'That's the tenth time this year,' Despin said, masking his disgust as best he could.

'It is,' Simpson said, also struggling to contain his irritation. 'It is not an uncommon sight to see letters and phone calls from concerned family members asking for their loved ones to come home.' He pointed a finger. 'But that father of yours is, without a doubt, the most persistent of the lot.'

'I will speak with him when I get the chance,' Despin said, stuffing the balled letter into his pocket.

'See to it that you do,' Simpson said brashly. He looked over the men, who were coughing and shivering. 'And get these men some proper medical attention. We may be needing them again.'

As Simpson walked away, Despin started to retch. He fought the tugging impulse to get violently sick. Carlos' incessant laughter served to make the aftereffects of adrenaline and fear that much worse.

'See?' he said, clapping his hands. 'Told you you'd be fine.'

'Shut up, please. I was _this _close to losing my job and worse,' Despin mumbled, clutching his stomach.

Laughing and shouting erupted from behind, and soon the men were singing the bastardised version of the anthem again. Despin walked away, sulking.

'Where's Job when you need him?' he mumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

Despin sat in the darkness of one of the recreational rooms in the palace. The internet connection for the Liberian Royal Family survived the battle, giving him a chance to make use of the laptop Job brought him.

'The guy who loaned it to me says that he wants it back before-'

'This will be a very brief call, I can assure you,' Despin interrupted. He waved at Job. 'You are dismissed, Lieutenant.'

'Of course, sir,' he said, the same look of defeat on his face that he always carried.

Job left and slammed the door, sending a gust of sand at Despin. He coughed and fanned the sand away, before connecting to the network and inputting his father's number.

'Pick up, you old fool. Pick up.' Despin tapped his finger on the varnished wooden table he was sitting at. 'My life is miserable enough without you pestering my COs.' He slammed his fist. 'Pick up!'

His father's face pooled onto the screen. His brown hair was neatly combed, but his worn, gray face indicated that hygiene and regular sunlight weren't high on the man's list of priorities.

'Despin,' he greeted with a weak and forced smile. 'How are you?'

'I got your letter.'

'I'm so glad you did. I've been so-'

'Colonel Williamson delivered it to me in person this time.' Despin raised an eyebrow. 'I take it you know that he was far from happy about it?'

His father raised his hands and joined them. 'Son, I understand that I keep pestering you-'

'Pestering would be putting it lightly.'

'-but I'm only trying to convince you to return home to me. It's not safe on the battlefront.'

'I got to the rank of Captain in only a matter of years and I did so without the need for any bribery.' Despin closed his eyes. 'I believe I am doing just fine.'

His father kept his hands clasped. Any ordinary Britannian noble would have raised his voice at a man with such a venomous attitude, but Despin's father was not an ordinary noble. In fact, with the amount of stress and debt he's been dealing with over the past few years, one would find it difficult to class him as a noble. 'You are my only son, Despin. My only child.' He pressed his hand against his chest. 'When your mother died, you were all that I had left. You are all I have left to continue my legacy-'

Despin laughed, salivating on the screen. He wiped it down, still giggling. 'You call that mess of a life a legacy? A legacy full of negative balance sheets and loan sharks?' He narrowed his eyes and slammed the table. The sudden change of tone frightened his father. 'A legacy that led to me having to spend the rest of my days in the military to pay back your damn debts! A legacy that made my mother kill herself!'

'Despin-'

'Don't bother,' he growled, fiddling with a strand of yellow hair. 'You should have stayed in Albion and faced your debts like a man. But, no – you thought it was an excellent idea to bring us to Britannia, thinking that things would change. Thinking that you wouldn't run into debt and thinking that people wouldn't take advantage of you if you did run into debt.'

His father looked down in shame. He reached off camera and brought a glass of brown liquid into sight, taking a generous sip out of it.

Despin groaned, more out of pity than disgust. 'You're back on the liquor, aren't you?'

'A glass now and again won't hurt.'

'It hurt you last year, remember? Falling down the stairs and breaking your foot? You spent a whole two weeks ringing High Command to try to get me to come home and take care of you.'

His father set down the glass, his face wrinkling in thought. He then sighed and took another sip. 'Despin, please, please, please come home.'

Despin threw his hands up and slammed them down on his legs, laughing. 'You were more than happy to cart me off to the army in the beginning and now look at you, begging me to come home and help you solve your problems.' He fingered the screen, voice sharpening again. 'You can solve your own damn problems; that's what you can do.'

His father clasped his hands again and sighed. 'I heard about what happened in Liberia. What happened to that Wolseley character. The man you were guarding.'

'Newsworthy already?' Despin pinched the bridge of his nose. 'The beauty of free media.'

'It's a wonder that you made it out alive, Despin.'

'Indeed, it is; which demonstrates why I am more than capable of surviving on the battlefield.' He folded his arms. 'I'm an exemplary knight. I've no need for your pissing and worrying.'

'They're escalating the war in Europe, Despin. It won't be long before the same happens in Africa.' His facial features fell slightly, which somehow made him seem a decade older.

'I can survive it. You worry more about yourself and paying back the government.' Despin reached for the disconnect button.

'Despin-'

'Goodbye, Father.'

'I love y-'

The screen went black, before pooling back to the desktop. Despin gasped and looked down.

'Old fool.'

* * *

Job, Carlos, Finlay and Despin stood before Colonel Williamson in the throne room. The Colonel stood at a planning table with a number of his junior officers. After seeing Despin, he dismissed the officers and beckoned Despin and his men to come closer. They exchanged a few words.

'You want us to take part in it?' Despin asked in disbelief.

'But Wolseley died because of us!' Job spluttered. He stiffened after feeling Despin's hand grapple the back of his new uniform.

'Indeed, he did, according to the media. Duke Defalk and his good friend, the Count of New Edinburgh, seem to share that viewpoint.' The Colonel ran his eyes over the map laid out before him. 'However, because I didn't buy myself to power, I don't run about pointing fingers at people, so I managed to convince High Command to give you all a chance to redeem yourselves. They feel that having the men who failed to protect Wolseley avenge him would bring all sorts of good PR for the military.'

Despin felt like releasing a breath of relief, but he viewed it as a sign of weakness and refrained from doing so. Job and Carlos, on the other hand, looked at one another and smiled. Despin wanted to smack the two of them.

'Retaking the base will be no simple task,' the Colonel said, pointing at the map. 'Given that we've been giving weapons to the Liberians for a whole year now, they're kitted out with some half-decent tech. Anti-air batteries, anti-tank missiles, Glasgow knightmares – you name it.' He waved his hand across the several blue arrows circling the outline of the base. 'Our only advantage is our numbers. Five knightmare platoons and three riflemen companies. We will also have air support, but only in the event that the main complex has been secured and all anti-air equipment has been eliminated.'

'What about artillery support, sir?' Despin asked.

'That's a negative. We have no artillery stationed at the capital. Getting it moved here before this afternoon wouldn't be possible. It would take several days, and we can't risk the King escaping to Federation territory.' Simpson knocked the table. 'We need this base now. No excuses.' He arched over the table and pointed to the large arrow south of the base. 'You and your three pilots here will join First Platoon of Second Battalion. Given your experience with the Liberian Glasgows, you will lead the platoon, Captain Monaco.'

'It would be an honour, sir,' Despin replied with a salute.

Job waved his hand to ask a question. Despin sighed.

'Yes, Lieutenant?' the Colonel said.

'What about the rest of our guys?'

Carlos nodded. 'Yes, what about them? They're good, loyal men. Been leading them for the last year.'

'They're not knights, and above all most of them can barely walk as it is,' the Colonel stated. 'They'll be reassigned to another regiment when they recover from their injuries.'

Bullshit, Despin thought. Of course they can walk and fight. The scum are just looking for some time off.

'Guess we have this morning to say goodbye,' Carlos said with an indifferent pout.

'I've got work to do,' the Colonel said, glancing at the clock on to the wall to his left. 'Meet up with your new men, say goodbye to your old ones, and suit up in your new knightmares before sixteen-hundred this evening. Understood?'

'Yes, sir!' They all bellowed as they saluted.

'Hail Britannia! Dismissed!'

* * *

It was hard for Job to say goodbye. The men liked him, talked with him nicely, and gave him some food now and again. He walked away from them with a defeated look. Carlos shared a few jokes with them and shook their hands, before ending their conversation with a salute.

Then it was Despin's turn.

'This asshole,' one of the men said, leaning on his crutches.

'Excuse me?' Despin said, stopping and letting the sand rise from his feet.

'You're an asshole. Only been serving with you for a short while and we can already safely say that you're the biggest douche this whole army has ever seen,' another man said.

Despin curled his hands into fists. He raised his chin and frowned. 'It was an honour serving with you, gentlemen. Enjoy your lives in the burning heat.'

'Enjoy your life in Simpson's bed,' one of the men sneered as Despin turned to leave. Laughter erupted from behind.

It doesn't matter anyway. They didn't have the hard life Despin had. Let them laugh and bask in their ignorance.


	5. Chapter 5

Despin stood with First Platoon. Eight Sutherlands. Six with assault rifles, one with a rocket launcher, and himself with his combat blade and machine pistol. He and his men were tasked with burrowing into the main complex and setting up an entry point for the infantry. The inner complex was going to be crawling with Liberian soldiers, so it was best to let the infantry handle the extraction of King Arob, while the knightmare platoons handled the enemy armour and base defences.

He didn't get much time to make good acquaintance with his new men, but they piloted their knightmares and followed orders, so Despin had no reason to be concerned.

Monrovia was far behind them. They travelled along the concrete roads leading to Monrovia base. Warning signs flashed them, reminding them that they were entering Liberian military property.

'Looking forward to lopping that rich bastard's head off,' Carlos said with grunt. He seemed to be talking to the lower-ranking knights. 'Take this from someone who spent his childhood living in a dirty slum and working on a dingy farm – there is nothing more satisfying than giving some rich bastard what he really deserves.' He grinned. 'A good trashing.'

'Hush. Captain Monaco is the son of a noble,' Job muttered.

'There's no point in whispering, Job. I can hear everything you're saying,' Despin said into his radio.

'I'm sorry, sir. I just didn't want the men to offend-'

'I'm not the son of a noble,' Despin outlined fiercely. Job was already groaning in shame. 'A noble has land, a title, and money. My father has none of that. Get your facts straight.'

'Apologies, sir,' Job mumbled.

The screams of the landspinners were all that could be heard in the surrounding desolate landscape. As they closed in on the first attack vector, Despin spotted Second Platoon and four armoured carriers.

'This is Heat two to Heat one. You guys ready to go? Over.'

Despin connected to the channel prompt. 'This is Heat one Actual. Copy that. Will move in and secure the complex once Heat two through five commence the attack. Over.'

'Solid copy, Heat two. Hail Britannia. Out.'

Despin focussed on his men. 'Alright, remember that we are to move straight to the base's main complex. That's the big building you see in the centre.' He highlighted the massive block of concrete that stood taller than the base's walls. 'The other platoons will handle the base defences and call in air support when necessary. Our objective is to make sure our ground forces get inside without any difficulty. Copy?'

'Copy!' they all replied, with the exception of Job.

'Sir! Sir!' he asked in a questioning tone.

'What is it, Job?' Despin said, pinching his nose.

'When the infantry are inside, do we just stand around and wait for them to finish or...'

'I'm certain High Command will have their own orders for us. I can assure you that we won't be standing around,' Despin said.

The other platoons could be seen in the very far distance, their images rippled by the heat. Carlos whistled the Britannian anthem while they waited, before coughing and saying, 'Anyone know if there's any good taverns in Monrovia?'

'Alcohol is banned in Liberia, sir,' Kirk said.

'It is?' Carlos said, rising from his seat in shock. 'I thought the dark skins loved their booze.'

'Their government doesn't, sir,' Kirk said with a shrug.

'Darn,' Carlos said, gritting his teeth. 'There must be some underground distributors around the place.'

One of the other men spoke up. 'I heard there's a place in one of the outer districts that sells spirits at night. Maybe you could-'

Despin thought of his father and the glass of liquor. He shivered. 'Cut the chatter,' he ordered.

Orders came from Regimental Command. Heat two, three, four and five are to initiate the preliminary strike. Heat one will move in once all anti-armour base defences have been neutralised. Heat one will then secure the main complex, clear the way for the infantry, and stand by until King Arob has been captured or eliminated.

'Sounds simple enough,' Carlos said.

'We took them on before, we can do it again!' Kirk hawked, raising his fists. The rest of the men roared. Despin groaned and told them to fall in behind him.

Second Platoon moved ahead. First Platoon followed at a slower pace, observing the puffs of fire and smoke reaching into the sky in the background. Base defence turrets rotated and fired on approaching Sutherlands. Demolition Sutherlands blew holes in the base walls as they approached. Knightmares from all platoons poured in and engaged with the Glasgows on site.

'Should we go in?' Job asked.

'We were told to wait until the base defences were cleared, Job. Shut up and have some patience,' Despin ordered.

They halted a few hundred metres short of entering the base. The noise was like a typhoon, fuelled by crackling gunfire and booming explosions.

'Sounds like they're having fun in there,' Kirk said, wincing.

'Heat one, this is Heat two Actual. Base defences have been secured. You are clear to make your approach. Be advised, air support has been designated to strike at the central courtyard, so keep your eyes on the skies. How copy?'

Despin replied, 'Solid copy, Heat two. Out.' He hit his landspinners, which howled when they hit the road. 'It's our cue, gentlemen! Let's go!'

They sped along the road until they turned and went through one of the massive gouges in the walls. They were met by a spurt of bullets from nearby Glasgows.

'Return fire!' Despin roared.

Before he could raise his machine pistol, a storm of explosive shells rained down on the Glasgows, sending smoke and shattered concrete everywhere. Looking up, Despin spotted an artillery ship flying over the base. It rained another few shells on the courtyard, before its engines cried and sent it away.

'If we had more ships like that we'd have this war won already!' Carlos shouted.

Despin led the Sutherlands further into the base. Sutherlands from other platoons were fighting away, taking down infantry stationed on the walls and fending off reinforcing Glasgows. Despin and his men avoided combat and proceeded towards the entrance – a huge set of steel doors with the golden leaf emblem of the Liberian Army hanging over it.

'Job!' Despin shouted. 'Put a hole in that thing!'

'Yes, sir!' Job replied, anxiously raising his rocket launcher. It slipped out of his hands.

'Job, for the love of-'

'Give him a moment, sir. We make mistakes,' Carlos said. There was a bit of indiscreet mumbling amongst the other men as well.

'Fine, but hurry it up,' Despin said, slapping his forehead.

'Thank you, Sergeant,' Job said, airing confidence that few would expect to see from him at all. He picked up his rocket launcher, took a moment to fix his reticule on the steel doors, before firing. The rocket exploded and pried the doors open, sending long cracks through the concrete near it.

'This is Heat one Actual to Regiment Command. The entrance has been cleared, I repeat: the entrance to the main complex has been cleared. Infantry are clear to move in. Over.'

Colonel Simpson's voice took the helm. 'Outstanding work, Captain Monaco. Stand by the entrance and keep our men covered as they make their approach. Regiment Command out.'

Despin fell back into his seat and gasped. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his napkin.

Carlos frowned when the armoured carriers lined up outside the entrance and released several platoons of infantry into the base. 'It's a shame we don't get to be the ones to bring that bastard in.'

'Yeah. Nearly got us all in trouble with High Command,' Kirk agreed. He threw his hands behind his head. 'Still, orders are orders.'

'That they are, Private,' Carlos said.

Despin felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. He remembered Wolseley, a pure gentleman and a loyal diplomat, being gunned down without provocation by a group of savages. He remembered Simpson's refusal to pin the blame on Despin's troops, despite all of the potential embarrassment. He remembered his father's words during their conversation:

_I heard about what happened in Liberia. What happened to that Wolseley character. The man you were guarding._

'Sergeant Berkes, I'm off for a bit. You're in command while I'm gone.'

Carlos raised an eyebrow. 'Sir?'

'Just do as I tell you,' Despin said. He opened his cockpit and jumped from it. He rolled when he hit the ground and he followed the infantry inside.

'By right, it should be Job who commands in the Captain's absence,' Carlos said, resting his chin on his hand. 'Right, sir? Lieutenant?'

He looked down. Job had abandoned his knightmare and was following Despin inside.

'Is he crazy or something?' Kirk asked. He reached for his handgun and opened his cockpit.

'Stay put, Finlay,' Carlos said before Kirk could jump.

'But, sir-'

'Job isn't as stupid as he seems. He can take care of himself. Let them do what they have to do.'

Britannian infantry were clearing out the various rooms, offices and warehouses inside the base. Shellshocked Liberians surrendered, while some of the more stubborn ones mounted a resistance – one that proved to be futile against the better fed and better trained Britannian soldiers. Despin slipped past the fighting Britannians and Liberians, venturing deeper into the base.

He encountered a Liberian soldier frantically trying to slip some sort of access card into a slot on the wall. Despin approached him and held him at gunpoint.

'Give me it.'

The Liberian turned around slowly, extending his trembling hand. Despin took it and waved his gun.

'What's in there?'

'King,' the soldier whimpered.

'How many men?'

'Six.'

The side of the man's head exploded, staining the wall crimson red. Despin looked back and snarled.

'Job!'

'Forgive me, sir,' Job muttered, lowering his handgun. 'I thought the man was threatening you.'

'I had him held at gunpoint! What made you think that he was threatening me?' Despin examined the card in his hand. He then looked at the access slot, wondering whether or not he should try and take on the King's guards by himself. He looked back at Job. 'Now that you're here, you may as well make yourself useful. Come here.'

Job lowered his sweaty head, fell in behind Despin and readied his gun. Despin slipped the card into the slot, which beeped and shone a green confirmation light. One of the ceramic tiles beneath them slid open, revealing an iron ladder that led to an underground war shelter.

'How cliché,' Despin groaned. He ordered Job to descend first.

They crept down a dimly lit corridor, with tiny orange lights acting as a guide for them. They arrived at an open steel door. Save for the soft pops and cracks of gunfire coming from above, the shelter itself was silent.

Job and Despin sprinted inside and crouched, taking in the expanse of the shelter with a single glance. Despin stood and lowered his weapon, eyebrows rising and mouth creaking open.

'They're dead?' Job said.

'How in the...'

Six dead Liberian palace guards; bloody bullet wounds scattered across their uniforms. King Arob himself lay against the wall at the other side of the shelter, a single bullet dug into his chest. Blood dribbled from the wound, adding a stream of red to his pearl white shirt. He was clearly dead.

'Who was down here before us?' Despin asked. He knew that he shouldn't have expected an answer. Job merely shrugged. 'There's genuinely something wrong with the people in this damn country. There really is.'

'Sir!' Job shouted, raising his handgun.

Despin turned and did the same.

A young boy crawled out from behind one of the rations boxes at the far side of the room. He wore a uniform and a cap similar to that of the palace guards. He had perfectly long golden white hair that fell to the floor like a rolling carpet.

'A kid?' Job said. 'Why is there a kid here? A white one too?'

He wasn't a dark skin. His eyes were purple and they looked like smoothly cut gemstones. He stood and raised his hands. 'Please don't hurt me,' he said in a disarmingly innocent voice.

Despin and Job lowered their weapons. Despin turned to Job. 'Find someone and tell them that the King is dead. Tell them we also found a Britannian child that Arob was keeping prisoner. Go.'

'No!' the boy wailed. His voice was so innocent and frail that Job couldn't help but turn around again. 'Don't tell anyone I'm here. Please don't.'

Despin approached the child and knelt. 'We're not going to hurt you. We're Britannian soldiers. We're going to get you out of here.'

'You can't. Please. Nobody must know that I am here. I have to remain-'

He was interrupted by a fit of violent coughing coming from King Arob. His eyes snapped open. His head arched down, letting him observe the bullet wound in his chest. He looked up and glared at the boy, before fixating his stare on Despin and Job. He gritted his teeth and his eyes glinted, turning misty red. Two pairs of curved, red wyvern-like wings materialised over his irises. Despin had never seen the likes of it before, nor did he ever get a chance to see a man's eye burst open, which is what happened the moment Job raised his handgun and pulled the trigger. Arob's head fell. His life was over.

Despin turned. 'Job, you have, without a doubt, the itchiest trigger finger I've ever seen on a man.'

'My apologies, sir,' Job said, lowering his head.

There was an explosion overhead that shook the building. Despin stood and grabbed the boy's hand. 'It's time to go.'

They sprinted back up the corridor and made their way up the ladder. Fire blazed from the other end of the base. It was clear that the whole building wasn't going to last for much longer.

The boy tore himself away from Despin, mumbling, 'I can't be seen. I can't be seen. I can't be seen.' He took one final look at Despin before running away and disappearing into the darkness.

'Go,' Despin ordered.

Job gawked. 'But, sir-'

'Go, damn you! I'll meet you later! Go!' Despin ran and followed the boy.

'Kid! Hey, kid! Kid!' Despin kept roaring, promising that the boy will be kept safe, but to no avail. Eventually, he spotted the boy standing on a walkway leading down into the lower levels of the base. Despin grabbed the boy. 'We are leaving, whether you like it or not,' he said.

Two palace guards appeared at the head of the metal stairway. They raised their rifles. 'Where is King Arob?'

'What?'

'The King! Where is he?'

Despin looked down. The guards were talking to the boy. The boy looked up, his purple eyes narrowing. He grabbed Despin's wrist.

Despin's vision faded. He saw white, then blue, then red, then green, then yellow. A variety of colours and images were flashing before him. He could hear the boy's voice.

'Britannian soldier, you find yourself in a predicament that could cost you your very life.'

_What? What the hell is happening?_

'I offer you a chance to live; to make a change; to use the power of kings to make a difference in the very world that you live in.'

_What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?_

'I offer you a simple contract. I present you this power in return for one thing: you must grant me my one true wish. Do you accept this power, or will you die knowing that you failed to make the slightest bit of a difference in this world that causes so much grief?'

_I...I...I..._

He saw his father. He saw the Albion businessmen that ruined his life. He saw the Britannian politicians and nobles that swindled him with the false promise of government grants. He saw his mother's body. He saw the rope hanging from the ceiling – the very one that took her life.

_I accept! I accept your contract! I want to live! Please! Let me live!_

Suddenly Despin was standing before the palace guards again. He dropped the boy and strained his left eye. It reddened and produced the same wyvern-like wings from before.

And then he was behind them, gun drawn and ready to fire. He pulled the trigger, sending the first guard away. The other one turned around.

'How did you-'

Despin pulled the trigger again. The guard was dead before he hit the ground.

Despin breathed and gasped. He looked up. The boy sat on the floor, watching the blood flow from the guards' bodies.

'What happened?' Despin asked himself. He dropped his gun and looked at his hands. He then looked at the boy. 'What did you do to me?'


	6. Chapter 6

Britannian news stations reported that King Arob II had been killed by rebelling palace guards, who then were executed by remaining guards loyal to the King. Devastated by the loss of their glorious monarch, they then killed themselves.

'Hard to believe they actually shot themselves over that rich bastard. What kind of brainwashing would you need to go through to do something like that?'

'Beats me. The dark skins are meant to be kinda odd anyway.'

'They sure are.'

Despin simply couldn't ignore the snippets of conversation behind him as he sat in the food hall. He finished off his meal and went to his room in one of the private mobile quarters situated outside the palace.

'It's only me,' he said as he slammed the door shut behind him. The boy crawled out from under the bed.

'Did you bring me anything?' he asked.

Despin reached into his coat piece and pulled out a bulky cloth napkin. He opened it, revealing a lump of beef, mashed potatoes, with a fork and a knife. 'It was the best I could do. I hope it isn't too messy.'

'It's okay. Thank you, Mister Monaco,' the boy said, loading some of the mash into his mouth.

'Call me Despin,' he said, patting the boy on the head. He sat on the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'We need to get you out of those clothes,' he said, indicating the boy's uniform.

He shook his head. 'I like them. They're comfortable.'

Despin grinned, but not in a humorous manner. 'They're also big invitations for trouble. I can't keep you holed up in here all the time. Someone will find out about you eventually, and we can't have you parading around in a uniform like that when it happens.'

The boy dropped his fork. 'Nobody can find out about me,' he insisted. 'I need to be kept a secret.'

Despin scowled. 'Which is exactly why we need to get you into some different clothes.' He rubbed his chin. 'Maybe we can pass you off as one of the palace's servant boys. No, we can't. You're white. They'll notice that straight away. Besides, they took all of the palace's servants away for interrogation. If they see you around, Lord knows how they'll react.'

The boy pointed to the bed. 'I could live under there. Only you and the chubby man know about me, so it wouldn't be a problem.'

'Yeah, but what about going to the bathroom and getting food? I can't keep sneaking meals out of the food hall for you, and I most certainly will not have you pissing into a bucket or a chamber pot in my room.'

The boy smiled broadly. 'Oh, I don't think that will be a problem for you.'

* * *

The canteen was quiet. The culinary personnel were washing up and storing away unused food. They didn't notice Despin when he whooshed into the kitchens using his new power. He let the boy down from his arms slowly, and brought him deeper into the kitchen.

'Right, pick out what you want, but be quick.'

The boy took one of the bags from the storehouse and started piling away food from the fridge, the cupboards, the storehouse, the-

'Alright, slow down. Take too much and you'll make it obvious,' Despin said.

They then whooshed into one of the master bedrooms in the palace, and they picked out a small black suit and pants. The shoes and the pants were a bit too big, but the jacket, tie and shirt were perfect.

'Alright, it'll do. You can pass yourself off as the son of one of the officers here or something. Let's go.'

Lastly, they whooshed into one of the lavatories. A man was showering, but was too preoccupied with his singing to notice Despin and the boy.

'Is it just a tinkle you need to do?' Despin asked, trying as hard as he could not to laugh at the karaoke in the background.

The boy nodded. He then started to giggle.

'Shush,' Despin said quietly. 'Hurry up and do what you have to do.'

'Don't look at me while I'm doing it,' the boy said.

'I won't. Good Lord, hurry up and do it before the pop star notices us.'

Despin looked away and waited. He tried as hard as he could not to look at the naked silhouette of the–oh God, I looked. Why did I look? What the hell is wrong with me?

'I'm finished,' the boy said, interrupting Despin.

The singing stopped. 'Is someone there?' the man asked.

Despin grabbed the boy, strained his left eye, and whooshed back to his room.

'I _really_ needed that,' the boy said with a satisfying gasp of air. He looked back at Despin, who fell back on the bed, clutching his left breast. 'What's wrong, Despin?'

Despin's face scrunched up in pain. 'I don't know. It's just that I have a really bad pain here.' He closed his eyes and breathed in. The pain faded. He sat back up. 'Must have been heartburn or something.'

The boy's face fell. His smile straightened and formed a thin line. His eyes looked serious. 'I'm sorry. I got carried away. I should have realised that your Geass puts a lot of strain on your body.'

Despin made a funny face. 'My what?'

'Geass,' the boy repeated. 'That's what your power is. Geass. The power of kings.'

Power of kings. Despin thought of King Arob and his eyes. 'Wait a second.' He pointed at the boy. 'You gave King Arob the power too, didn't you?'

The boy shrugged. 'So what if I did? I can make contracts with anyone I want.'

Despin pointed at his eye. 'Was it the same as mine? Teleportation?'

The boy shook his head. 'No, but it was just as powerful. He needed it to safeguard his power as king.'

Despin remembered the hallucination he had. 'And did he you grant you your wish in return?'

The boy shook his head. There was a trace of disappointment in his eyes. 'No, he didn't. He was inadequate. He was cruel as well. He would beat me and lock me up whenever I refused to give him advice; hence why I couldn't run away until you came along.'

Despin frowned. 'And besides, just what is this wish? What do I have to do complete the contract?'

The boy twisted his lips in thought. 'I need to find something,' he finally said.

'What?'

'I'm not telling you yet. I need to gauge whether or not you can be useful to me.'

Despin laughed and rolled his eyes. 'Whether or not I can be useful? If that's the case, why the heck did you give me this thing?' He pointed to his eye and strained it for reference.

'It's the best metric for any situation. I can see what the person of interest can do with such a power.'

It gave Despin the wildest idea. He could return home to his father, use the power to assassinate the men he owes money to, and subsequently buy enough time to find a way to get him out of Britannia for good.

The boy laughed smugly. He shook his head and smiled wickedly. 'I can see it already. The look of wonder on your face. "What I can I do with this? Maybe I can do this and that. Oh my God, I now have a chance to do that and this."' He laughed again. 'I've seen it all before. Arob had the same look on his face as well.'

Despin folded his arms and looked away. 'There are many things I could do with this "Geass". I don't suppose there's anything stopping me from doing it either.' He shrugged. 'So long as I use it in moderation, I won't put too much stress on my body. I can do whatever I want then.'

The boy kept smiling. 'And I suppose you'll forget about my contract then, won't you?'

Despin looked back and brought on a mischievous smile of his own. 'Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. I suppose it depends.'

The boy laughed again. 'Again, I've seen this all before. Thinking the Geass makes you invincible.' He pointed at the window, indicating the palace. 'Listen, what do you think made King Arob betray Britannia in the first place?'

Despin looked away and shrugged. 'Daniel Wolseley made a comment about his wives and their shopping trips. Arob went crazy over it.'

The boy took an apple out of his bag and tore a lump out of it with his teeth. 'No,' he said while he chewed. 'Arob had Geass for over a year now. However, because he ignored our contract, I stopped giving him advice and attention. Without me, the Geass grew out of proportion.'

'I fail to see how his Geass was involved,' Despin said, sounding less confident despite his stubbornness.

The boy pointed. 'Look in the mirror.'

Despin did so and strained his eye. The red wings flickered to life in his left eye.

The boy approached him. 'See how the power is incubated in only one of your eyes? Now, think back to when you saw Arob yesterday.'

Despin recalled how the wings inhabited both of Arob's eyes. Air escaped his lungs and he frowned.

The boy continued. 'The Geass spreads overtime. Through careful mental conditioning, it can be controlled.' He wagged his finger. 'However, Arob was not a mentally sound man, and without me to guide him, he lost of control of the Geass. As a result, he started to break down, thinking that he was far more powerful than anything else in this world.' He pointed at the mirror again. 'That is why he betrayed Britannia. When you refused his demands, he went to war, thinking that he was more than capable of winning it. I'm sure you can understand that he really wasn't.'

It was a lot for Despin to consider. If he adhered to his contact, he would be in debt just like his father. Having to serve in to army to alleviate the negative profit sheets was one thing, but doing the bidding of this child?

Still, Arob was absolutely insane to think that he could take on Britannia. And Despin saw his eyes. He saw that the Geass clearly consumed the man.

Despin looked down. 'Forgive me. There's been so much going on in my life recently that I just thought I'd finally have to a chance to make things right.' He looked at the boy. 'I hope you aren't angry with me. I'm not a bad person.'

'Believe me when I say that I can relate,' the boy said, raising and fanning his hand apathetically. 'You are free to use the Geass to your liking once our contract has been fulfilled. That's all you have to do.'

How long will it take? How many innocent Africans will he have to kill to keep his superiors happy? How much longer will he have to spend babysitting Job and taking orders in the burning African sun?

Speaking of the devil, the door opened, revealing Job. He walked in, having discarded his uniform again.

'Your laundry, sir,' he said, dropping the bundle of clothes on the bed. He looked at the boy and screamed. 'Why is he still here!?'

'I've decided to foster him for the moment,' Despin said. His eyes bulged with ire. 'And where is your uniform?'

'I had to take it off. The heat is too much, sir.' He shook his head rapidly. 'But, wait, what!? Foster!? But look at what he did to you! Your eye! Who knows what else he could do!'

'Indeed,' Despin said with a proud nod. He shot a daring look at the boy. 'Who knows?'

Job felt faint and landed on the bundle of clothes. Despin groaned and slapped his forehead.

'We don't even know his name,' Job said, his voice fading like a ghost.

The boy walked away from Despin and looked straight into Job's eyes. He bowed, his mighty head of long hair curling around him like falling curtains. 'You can call me V2.'


End file.
